Part IV: Accession
by Azolean
Summary: "Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends." John 15:13
1. Prologue

_**A/N: **Here we go again. I'm off to a rough start here, though, as a recent shoulder injury has limited my typing ability to one hand for at least a few days. I did not want to leave everyone hanging, so I managed to get this much out tonight. I'm hoping for the first real chapter in two to three days. Afterward, I hope to be back up to at least a chapter a day until this is finished. Thank you for your patience. _

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_**bar·gain**_  
_1. an advantageous purchase, especially one acquired at less than the usual cost_  
_2. an agreement between parties settling what each shall give and take or perform and receive in a transaction._  
_3. such an agreement as affecting one of the parties_

_-ing (verb)_  
_1. to arrange by bargain; negotiate_  
_2. to anticipate as likely to occur; expect_

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**Prologue**

Holmes' mind swirled and screamed and raged through a haze of darkness as he shivered beneath his coat in the freezing morning air. The raging maelström of thoughts and feelings combined did more to numb his senses than any exposure to that soggy March morning. Watching the coffin being lowered into the cemetery plot beside Mrs. Mary Watson, reserved by a Dr. John Watson, he couldn't quite comprehend how it had come to this.

Part of his mind wanted to know how something so simple could have grown so complicated. How had something so ordinary turned so deadly? Part of his mind dove through all the accumulated evidence and facts as it tried to put them into some sort of order. Part of his mind rebelled at what he was seeing. Part of his mind wanted to crawl into the darkness and never come out again. Some tiny part of his mind screamed for something to make the darkness go away.

He still craved.

It was always there, still calling to him. But after his unspoken promise to Watson, he would not turn back.

His Watson had kept his word even in the face of death. Holmes would do no less.

He had little need to remind himself of those promises, even with the cravings and the calling of the darkness to his mind and soul. There was too much work to be done for him to spend too much time wallowing in his own misery at the injustice and unfairness. There would be time enough for that later. Instead, he turned to the other promise he had once made to his dying friend.

The service was over.

The burial completed.

The white marble headstone stood out starkly against the freshly disturbed earth.

He stood alone now.

In the stillness of the cemetery, his violin began to speak. The world ceased to exist as his heart told the story his mind could not put to words.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

"No sleeping on the job, old man."

A softly spoken voice reverberated through Holmes' head like a gong. His ears ringing and head pounding to match the cadence of his sluggishly beating heart, his fogged mind wandered as he absorbed the sound of his tormentor. He groaned something unintelligible he thought was a command to leave him alone. To his own ears it sounded more like the croaking of something undead. He just hoped it was enough to rid him of the infernal entity that dared disturb him when he felt like this.

"Sorry, Holmes. But if you don't wake up right now, things are going to get even more unpleasant."

"..b..m...as..fom..."

"Really, now!" the voice said, rather impressed. "That's a new one. I wonder where you picked that up."

Apparently the sentiment was clear even if the words were not. His mind was moving with all the alacrity of honey in winter. Somewhere in the pounding depths he began to realize it was a little too dark to be his bedroom.

"Holmes, I'll not ask again. You _will _open your eyes."

Only now did his brain put a name to that tightly controlled voice.

_Watson_.

But where was Watson? Why was his head so heavy? He hurt in so many places that the sudden influx of data to his already suffering head became too much. He felt himself retching, heaving his virtually empty stomach contents on the cold stone floor beside him. Still his eyes would not open. For a time the world faded and narrowed to the pounding in his skull as it trebled and the violent cramping in his gut as his stomach turned itself inside out.

"That it, Holmes. Just breathe."

Slowly he became aware of something warm and firm supporting him from behind. He had somehow managed to roll half onto his side with the violence of the heaving. For a time that voice that came from the warmth soothed his mind and eased the tension in his body as he followed its instructions.

"Watson?" he finally managed to whisper.

"Yes, it's me, dear fellow. Try not to move too much. You've had a rough time of it."

"Where?" Holmes asked, rather proud he was even able to form a coherent question.

The sigh behind him ended in a sharply cut off hiss of pain as Watson shifted to a slightly better angle. Instinctively Holmes started to pull away, somehow aware that he was in part causing that pain.

_"Stop,"_ Watson commanded. "I can't assess your injuries. Besides, it's better that you stay leaning against me in case it happens again."

Only then did Holmes become aware of the fact that his hands, and likely Watson's, were tied behind his back. A slight flexing of his foot confirmed additional bindings around his ankles. The dim sensation of something rubbing up against his nearly numb fingers alerted him to the fact that Watson was working to get them out. His mind finally caught up to how he'd managed to get them into this situation. He was glad for the darkness as he recalled their failed attempt at locating the source of some recent arsons.

"...basement. I'm sure they'll be..."

Watson's words washed over him as he continued to outline their current circumstances in a voice meant to be soothing to his friend's confused mind. It worked...a little too well. Holmes felt himself drifting off. Self-recrimination began as his mind conjured some of the more vile invectives it could recall ever having heard.

~o~o~o~

Some of the same colorful language was muttered moments later as Watson realized his friend had drifted off to unconsciousness again. This time, no amount of verbal and even some physical prodding managed to produce a reaction. Letting his head drop painfully back to the icy basement floor with a thud, he gave himself a few minutes to just breathe. He could feel the muscles cramping and convulsing in his arms, chest, and shoulders with either pain or cold. He couldn't recall anymore. He'd already recognized the first symptoms of hypothermia setting in when he'd woken nearly an hour ago.

He wasn't sure exactly how long they'd been in that basement, but he could guess based on his own symptoms. He recalled with painful clarity how Holmes, already unconscious at the time, had been thrown down the basement stairs to land in a heap. Tied up himself, Watson had not yet been able to assess his friend's condition beyond recalling the sickening crack of Holmes' skull impacting the floor when he'd landed. The wave of relief he'd felt upon realizing Holmes was still breathing had been short-lived, however, as the dire circumstances of their situation dawned on his drugged mind.

They had been set up.

Holmes had been following a lead on a gang of arsonists and was going to meet an informant. The informant had kept them busy while men had sneaked up behind them in the darkness. With filthy rags soaked in chloroform the men had caught them unawares. Holmes had initially fought, and nearly won the battle against his own opponent. Watson, having another idea entirely, had given only a token struggle before going limp. He could not stop the vapors that did manage to slow his mind, but he had managed to cling to consciousness.

The men had first tied them tightly and then dragged them to the basement door of the old house. Through slitted eyes, Watson had watched as Holmes was tossed down the stairs like a doll. Even being semi-conscious, Watson had fared little better. He remembered the side of his head catching a glancing blow on the edge of a wooden stair before the impact with the floor drove the breath from his lungs. In the battle to relax enough to regain his breath, consciousness had slipped away.

Upon first waking he was gladdened to hear the nearby slow breathing of his friend in the darkness. Ignoring the pain flaring through his arm and chest, he wriggled closer to Holmes inert form. At the time, Holmes would not wake even to groan out a reply. Quickly he remembered the gang's plans for them and wished he hadn't. At some point before sunrise, they were going to set fire to the house above them. Even in the frigid air of the basement, Watson could smell the cloying scent of lamp oil as they prepared.

Constantly talking to his unconscious friend in the hopes of getting some kind of response, Watson had begun a slow and painful inspection of their surroundings. As expected, he rolled and writhed his way around the room until he could feel the stabbing agony of his shoulder flaring white heat across his chest and still came up with nothing useful.

Ignoring the blood flowing from his badly chafed wrists, he worked his way back toward Holmes and the stairs. For a time he had tried rubbing the ropes around his wrists against the one protruding nail on the bottom stair. The pain soon became such that he could no longer feel his hands below the elbows. And what he could feel he wished the cold would numb for him. While rubbing futily at the dull nail, he kept up his verbal prodding of his friend.

When the first incoherent moaning began, he quickly gave up his efforts with the nail to once again painfully make his way back over to his friend. Biting back groans of pain, he positioned himself close enough to better assess Holmes' level of awareness. He could not stop the smile that broke out at the sound of that voice cursing him creatively. Hearing the sounds of retching and gagging, Watson had quickly rolled himself onto his already screaming shoulder to lever the other one in support against Holmes' already angled back.

He kept up a steady stream of soothing words until his friend began to inhale more deeply and slowly. He felt Holmes' shift against him as he began to uncurl and relax. The unclenching of so many muscles only made the man's shivering all the more pronounced. He sighed with relief when his friend had finally managed to regain enough awareness to ask a question, even if it was only the one word. As pain flared again through his injured shoulder propped against the freezing stone blocks, he hissed.

He pushed back the pain again as he commanded Holmes not to move. He did not want Holmes rolling onto his back and choking if he were to vomit again, though he doubted there was much left anyway. And, at least in this position he could dimly feel the ropes around Holmes' wrist. As his friend drifted off once more. Watson continued to hope it was still many hours yet before the gang would come back and finish what they had started.

While he worried over Holmes' injuries, his nearly numb fingers carefully inspected the knots around Holmes' wrists. He almost couldn't believe what he was feeling. Cursing himself for the loss of time, he didn't waste any more time questioning their good fortune. He knew Holmes always kept a tiny blade or two secreted about his person for occasions just such as these, but he'd never dared hope that it would go unnoticed in the man's cuff as they tied him securely. He quickly repositioned his fingers for the delicate work. He knew there was no way to avoid some deep gashes, but hoped that he could at lest extract enough of the blade from Holmes' cuff to be useable.

Watson was so focused on his task he failed to hear the footsteps once more moving above him. When the blade bent, but finally slipped free, he only just managed to bite back a cry of triumph. The sounds of pounding feet above him made him freeze, the blade clasped painfully in his cut and bloodied fingers. His mind raced through every medical text he'd ever read regarding burning injuries and death by fire. Fighting back panic, he almost hoped Holmes would not wake. Part of his brain knew that suffocation or smoke inhalation would likely get them first. But his mind kept conjuring images of every burn he'd ever seen.

He sawed at the ropes not even feeling the cuts to his own flesh as his heart raced. The pounding of feet above him was quickly joined by raised voices. Finally, one voice penetrated the growing panic. The blade slipped from his nerveless fingers as crashes and raised voices escalated. He added his own voice to the din. Ignoring the pain that seared across his chest from his shoulder, he called out as loud as he could, hoping and praying someone would hear above the racket.

Watson could have laughed with relief as the door flung open and a familiar voice called.

"What the devil are _you_ doing here?!"


	3. Chapter Two

_**A/N: **Huh, the way people act, you'd think _I'd_ murdered Watson or something. lol _

_**Guest: **Thank you for the review! I would apologize, but I get the impression you're liking it. ;)_

_**Riandra: **Thank you again. I'm working on it! I promise I'll try not to take too long. _

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**Chapter Two**

Watson sighed yet again. He'd long ago given up any hope of winning the argument, but he knew it was his duty as both a friend and doctor to the man on the bed to persist.

"Holmes..."

"Mrs. Hudson will never find out. Provided, of course, that you don't attempt to prevaricate in your usual way."

This return was spoken with no little challenge in his voice as he continued to pout from his bed. Watson crossed his arms hiding his bandaged hands, giving every impression of an unmovable object. Holmes knew better. He'd already won the argument. Now he just had to convince Watson he'd won.

The two eyed each other challengingly waiting for one to back down. The sudden glint that lit in Watson's green eyes had Holmes frowning a moment later. He never did like that expression. It usually meant his Watson had managed to outmaneuver him. The knowing grin that began to form on his friend's face was enough to convince him he would not like the answer if he bothered to ask.

Reading more in each others' expressions in a few seconds than most did in hours of spoken conversation, Holmes already knew where this would end. And yet he couldn't help but wonder when it was Watson had developed such a wicked streak of cunning.

"Watson..."

"You're not getting out of that bed, Holmes."

Biting back some rather ungentlemanly remarks, Holmes shifted once more to lie prone on the bed. He could not deny the silent gratitude his body spoke in the form of reduced throbbing throughout the various parts of his body. Watson said nothing further for a few moments while he carefully covered Holmes in several layers of blankets.

"_I _will go talk to Lestrade and then we'll see what happens from there, dear chap." Watson finally said, pouring a glass of water. "For now, you need to rest. Give your body a chance to heal, and I'll do what I can."

"I was not planning on chasing all over London," Holmes replied testily, reminding Watson of a petulant child.

"No, just Scotland Yard, most of the area around Baker Street, and half a dozen or so drinking establishments," Watson threw back blandly.

Holmes gray eyes glared malevolently. Watson was not supposed to know about...

"Very well, then," Holmes finally huffed. "Go, see what your friends at the Dancing Duck have to say about the week's activities. Then, perhaps, you will see that I am not simply addled!"

Heaving another weary sigh, Watson turned down the gas. "I hope you're wrong."

The multitude of unspoken thoughts and feelings behind that phrase penetrated Holmes' irritation as Watson refused to face him. Watson was still haunted by the memories of guilt and loss. Though they had never spoken much about it openly, Holmes could tell his friend was fearing a repeat performance. Holmes knew Watson would not survive a second such abandonment. When his friend reached for the bag beside the bed, Holmes placed a hand on his arm to stop him. He waited until Watson met his gaze questioningly, so he could see the sincerity.

"Not this time," Holmes assured Watson that he would not be left behind.

The relief that flooded Watson's face was proof enough of what had been on his mind. Holmes was glad he could give at least that much reassurance. As Watson closed the bedroom door behind himself, Holmes almost wished someone could offer him the same reassurance. The shadowy threat he sensed that had invaded the streets of his city haunted him.

Some ghosts refused to stay quiet.

~o~o~o~

Lestrade eyed the man sitting across from his desk critically. It had only been three days since he'd found the doctor and Mr. Holmes tied up in the basement of a house that was to be set afire that very same night. He was not entirely surprised to feel a sense of lingering dread at the idea of what had almost become of the man sitting before him now.

"He's feeling better, then," Lestrade commented. When Watson glanced up at him curiously he threw a knowing grin as he said, "Otherwise you would not be looking like a man who could use a drink."

Watson's chuckle reassured him that Holmes was indeed improving in health, thus making life harder for his friend. "If I can convince him to rest for a few more days, he should be back to his usual in a week or so."

"Glad to hear it, John," Lestrade said sincerely.

Though he still bore a grudge against Holmes for what he'd done to all of them, most especially the doctor, he did not wish the man ill. Finishing the tea he had prepared, he resumed his seat across from Watson.

"So, what is it Mr. Holmes seems to think you'll find here? The arsonists are all sitting in gaols, the case was closed successfully."

Watson sipped his tea with a frown, trying to gather his thoughts. He didn't like where this was headed, and there seemed no easy way to broach the subject.

"Holmes thinks someone paid them," he started off hesitantly, still trying to organize his thoughts.

"That I don't doubt," Lestrade said, "but none of them would say a word. They all claimed they were doing it for fun."

"Seven people, Giles. Seven people were killed in twelve fires."

Lestrade nodded. "Yes, it is a rather high number for just being arson. They were obviously employed by someone who wanted these people dead. The other fires were to throw us off who that might be. But for all the victims, we could not find a common link."

"And most arsonists are lone operators. They don't form gangs. They don't use it as a form of assassination. Holmes thinks we need to look at all of the arsons. He thinks they're all tied together, and not just by the firestarters."

Lestrade frowned unhappily, already picturing the hours spent in going over the numerous fires for any clues. "There's more."

Watson nodded guiltily. "He thinks the murders, the fires, the thefts, and more are all being coordinated by someone."

Lestrade sighed and dry-scrubbed his face with his hands. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

Watson nodded again.

"It's not _him, _is it? I mean, the body was never recovered."

"No. Holmes is certain of that much. This person, or persons, is not as cunning, but would appear to have just as far of a reach. They are much more open in some ways, while concealing their true purpose. Unlike Professor Moriarty, he feels there is some greater goal in all of this than the accumulation of just wealth or power."

"More than 'just wealth or power'?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

"He says it is much more intricate. There is a greater force at work, and he is trying to find out what their ultimate goal really is. Holmes was never able to bring Moriarty's true goal to light, and he had felt even then that there was more to it. Whether this is a continuation of the original aim, or something entirely different, he is determined to find out. I'm sure he has his suspicions, but he does not intend to share them with me just yet.

"Essentially, he wants us to evaluate all of the arsons and a number of other crimes he has marked as potential connections."

"I'll see if I can't get McAllister..." Lestrade trailed off as Watson shook his head vehemently.

"No, we can't. Holmes says it is to stay between the three of us. He doesn't want anyone to know we even suspect there is more yet."

"He suspects Scotland Yard?" Lestrade bristled slightly at this.

"I'm afraid so," Watson confirmed, somewhat uncomfortable with the admission. "And I agree with him."

Lestrade sat back in his creaking chair scrutinizing Watson thoroughly. He had no need to ask the question that hung between them. Watson ran a hand across his face as if to wipe away the darkening thoughts of suspicion. Obviously he was no more pleased with the idea than the inspector.

"Holmes has always had a way of identifying patterns in criminal activity, no matter how cleverly someone attempted to cover their tracks. What he's seeing now ties together more crimes in the last two years than either of us could likely begin to guess. The scope of it astounds even him. And the only way he can think that all of the links between these crimes could so easily and successfully have been overlooked or disregarded would be intentionally.

"I don't like it anymore than you do, Giles. But someone is diverting attention away from the source and helping to make them seem random. Who else would be in a position? Holmes fears it goes even higher than that, but this is where we start."

Lestrade grunted thoughtfully. "I'm sorry, John. I can't accept that without some proof. I will do what I can to help in searching through the case files. But I will_ not_ do so under the suspicion that someone is deliberately sabotaging investigations."

Watson nodded wearily in understanding.

Lestrade felt the need to lighten the atmosphere, even if only a little. "Besides, Holmes knows what a bunch of bunglers we are. He might be wrong."

The grin that lit the doctor's face did not reach his eyes, but Lestrade thought it enough. This topic was far from over, and both men set to planning their next moves. It would be slow going with only two of them, and most of that being Lestrade. As he was employed only occasionally by the Yard, Watson would have to be far more careful and less involved. Holmes did not want him bringing attention to their private investigation by digging through files that had nothing to do with his medical reports. The two quietly plotted out how to go about searching various files, and Lestrade even managed to contrive a way to get Watson more involved at the Yard to help allay suspicions. Watson checked a sigh that rose as he considered how this was going to fit in with his current rounds. His mind already planning for the days ahead, he bid farewell to the inspector.

As he left Scotland Yard to turn his feet back toward Baker Street, he failed to notice the brightly glittering green eyes that followed him.


	4. Chapter Three

_**A/N: **My muses are officially punishing me for doubting them. It's kind of difficult to write something dark and forboding when the music that keeps playing over and over in your head is anything _but._ To make matters worse, they've bound and gagged all the characters in some dark corner! _

_If you're at all curious as to what music, search google for: _

_ watch?v=sSVY7m6vEoE_

_So, yeah, this chapter and the next few may seem a little off after the last three. I'm gonna run with it and see how it goes over before turning the muses' asylum inside out to rattle them._

_**Carry: **Thank you for the review! I'm planning on finishing all of them, but I'm viewing these as a rough draft. I hope I don't disappoint.  
_

_**Riandra: **Impatient much? ;) Don't worry, I'm working on it. I won't keep you hanging for too long. You might need those nails, afterall.  
_

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**Chapter Three**

Holmes wondered at the rather alarming shade of red on Watson's face. Not for the first time that evening he had had occasion to keep his thoughts to himself. He was trying to bear in mind that his dear friend had been having a rather rough time lately. With it being only the first week of February, the weather really hadn't improved much and his services as a doctor were sorely needed...everywhere, really. To top that off, he had been keeping Watson busy on side trips and errands for his various cases. And, of course, Lestrade had been finding a number of rather creative—for him—ways of getting the doctor to come down to the Yard more and more often.

_ Perhaps I'm pushing him a little too much of late, _Holmes considered.

A moment later he felt his suspicion was confirmed when the expected explosion never materialized. Instead, Watson exhaled explosively as he threw himself into his chair by the fire. Still dripping from the knees down after having spent the better part of the day tramping through the slush on his rounds, Watson looked like a man in desperate need of a week's worth of sleep—preferably now. His health had improved considerably these last few months, along with his stamina. But even he had to be wearing thin.

Even as Holmes was about to voice his concern, the chuckling from the chair opposite his own became full blown laughter. Not entirely certain if he should feel insulted or concerned, Holmes waited patiently keeping his expression carefully neutral. Finally Watson gathered himself enough to reach for his pipe and cup of tea.

"Very well then, Holmes," Watson drawled. "Please enlighten me."

Frowning at his friend's dubious tones, Holmes did just that. He had not originally intended to make Lestrade feel he was chasing his own tail, but there had been no further evidence produced from the perusal of dozens of recent cases on a variety of crimes. All the evidence against the perpetrators was intact, and there was no indication of falsified reports even after the fact to cover up any lingering traces. Watson, for what little he was able to gain access to, had had no better luck in finding what it was Holmes was hoping to find. And Holmes still felt he should not share what it was he was thinking so as not to bias his cohorts' views on their perusal of files.

This was not the first time they had argued. But the accusation Holmes was vaguely alluding to regarding Lestrade was enough that the doctor had become most heated. Holmes had no doubts as to the inspector's loyalties. His question had been more in regards to Watson's assessment of Lestrade's willingness in the matter. It was, after all, one or more of his own men that would be caught up in this mess, if Holmes was proven correct.

"As I said, I do no doubt Lestrade is doing his part. But you must understand, Watson, that we are not seeking out some easily bought constable on a patrol. Someone with greater influence is diverting attention away from the common links, dividing cases into smaller parts so that the greater scheme is either overlooked or ignored entirely."

"And you think Lestrade knows something."

It was not a question, and the warning tone behind that statement made Holmes reconsider his next words.

"I believe he may have suspicions, provided he can look beyond his own opinion of those with which he works. He is not—"

"As you said, he is needing the suspicious eye of an outsider. That is what _I _have been providing. And, even then, I have found nothing more than he. Do you doubt my perspective or loyalties?"

"Of course not!" Holmes snapped, waving irritatedly as he puffed on his pipe.

"Then explain to me why you want me to back off entirely and Lestrade to start searching any case file he can find that _doesn't_ fall into your categories of suspicion."

"We are needing to redirect our attentions to other areas for more direct investigations. We are not finding the evidence within Scotland Yard. I will need your help for these, as you have connections of a professional nature on both sides."

"You're referring to my patients?"

"Yes."

"I see."

"Probably not entirely, but you'll get there eventually."

Holmes' parting shot had the desired effect as he rolled out of his chair in a catlike move that left Watson wondering how it was the man could so easily evade the book he'd thrown. If it wasn't for the numerous cracked and broken bones he'd had to tend over the years, he'd wonder if Holmes possessed any at all the way he did that at times. He watched Holmes gathering his coat and hat preparing to make rounds of his own. The slightest limp was the only remaining evidence of their night spent in the basement of that house.

"We are likely to attract some attention with our inquiries, Watson. I would much prefer if you would take to carrying some security on your person."

"You know I do."

"Good man."

"Holmes?"

Watson's quiet tone had Holmes hesitating with his hand on the sitting room doorknob. By the time he turned to face his friend, Watson had diverted his gaze back to the fire and deliberately away from him. He sensed there was something his friend was struggling to say. Catching sight of the slightest drop in his friend's shoulders, he knew Watson had already changed his mind.

"Do be careful."

"Of course."

Watson nodded as if to himself, and Holmes closed the sitting room door quietly behind himself. He knew Watson had once again been struggling with some nightmares that left him shuffling around his bedroom and even the sitting room of late. With the ghost of something akin to Moriarty's machinations looming over them once more, Holmes really couldn't blame the poor fellow. Though he and Watson had worked through their issues regarding that whole time period, it was not entirely surprising that some things still did not sit well for either of them. Holmes was proud of how the doctor had recovered these last few months. He would do everything in his power to protect that recovery and ensure it continued.

He did not doubt at all that gaining Watson's help in this investigation was the correct course of action. Yet, he could not deny the sense that this was too much, too big for two of them to take on alone. Lestrade was the only other person he trusted at this point in the investigations. But, even then, it was a question of how far Lestrade could be trusted when it came to suspecting his own comrades. What would Lestrade do to protect one of his own?

Holmes grunted, disliking the idea of so much distrust. But he could not as yet bring himself to suspect Lestrade of anything more criminal than ignorance.

He never even noticed the glittering green eyes that followed him down the darkening sidewalks as he turned off of Baker Street.

~o~o~o~

A week later Holmes found himself hard pressed not to throw something at the man sitting across the table from him as Watson pushed his dinner around his plate. It had taken him all of a few seconds to assess his friend's dark thoughts. Watson had been distant for nearly two days. He had kept to himself and given little by way of report on Holmes' investigative queries. The agitation had been visible in every gesture and word. Holmes was well aware that some of the doctor's patients were less than pleasant people, though he had always treated them with a respect above their station. Watson didn't view his patients as wealthy or poor. One of his most endearing traits—and one that made him more than a simple doctor—was his sense that they were all just people to him. Social, financial, and cultural distinctions meant nothing to him.

Watson's closed-off, restless behavior spoke of a tension that was not something he could easily just throw off. Something was bothering him, and it was not the usual depression he experienced when losing a patient. Nor did it strike Holmes as anything so professional as the stubbornness of a patient. There was something more personal here that Holmes could not identify. He hadn't seen any of the warning signs involving a loneliness or mental turn toward his deceased family, though a lover's holiday was swiftly approaching.

His attention diverted for a moment from his dark thoughts, Watson caught sight of his friend's gray-eyed scrutiny. Watson's furrowed brow smoothed into a mask of impassivity as he very deliberately took a bite of what Holmes was sure to be a very cold roast by now.

Knowing that expression all too well, Holmes conceded the loss in this battle of wills. Pushing aside his half-eaten dinner, he moved toward the fire. Not surprisingly, Watson did the same, reaching for his pipe. This silent tension had grated on his nerves long enough. Holmes gave up all pretense of his previous activities as he reached for his violin. He had had little enough time to explore the numerous compositions since receiving his Christmas gift from Watson.

"Must you?"

Holmes, startled by this irritated question raised his brows in silent question.

"I'm sorry, dear chap," Watson sighed wearily. "That was uncalled for. Please, go ahead and play. I think I'll turn it early tonight."

"Are you feeling quite well?"

"Just a headache," Watson tossed over his shoulder. "Good night, Holmes."

For a moment Holmes stared at the sitting room door. Without a doubt, something was bothering his friend. What bothered _him,_ however, was the fact that Watson would not speak of it. Had he given some offense? Did Watson not trust him? Had his suspicions of Lestrade really caused the man so much concern?

For all the questions that came to mind, the one thing he was sure of was that Watson had just lied to him. He had become familiar with Watson's outward symptoms of a headache during their years together. He had displayed none tonight.

_So what_ is_ he hiding?_ a voice that sounded suspiciously like that of his brother asked.

Disgusted with his own suspicious nature Holmes placed his violin back in its case. He no longer felt like playing. And his time would be better spent elsewhere. Settling in for a long night of study, he began to peruse his countless books of case notes and profiles.

~o~o~o~

Alone in the comfort and safety of his own bedroom, Watson sat staring at the wall behind his desk. His newest journals were now filled with page after page of a single person that now almost consumed his thoughts. He had never believed in all his life that such would come back to haunt him. Though he had always held out hope, he had never really expected it. Now, as he sat to write in his journal, he knew it was only a matter of time before Holmes would force a confrontation. He never could hide anything for long from the man, and he knew this would be no different.

He would have to tell Holmes soon. But what that would do to their relationship, he did not want to imagine. What would Holmes think of him once he knew that his dearest friend had...


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

Holmes had had enough of his friend's secrecy. The following day Watson had come home with a split lip and a swiftly darkening bruise along his left jaw. He had warned Watson to be careful making his inquiries and to draw as little attention as possible. He had given specific instructions on what to ask about and how. And, even when bearing physical evidence he could not hide, the man insisted on denying something was amiss! He had reviewed the confrontation in his mind over and over again looking for some detail, some misplaced word, that would give him the clue he needed as to where to start.

~o~o~o~

"It's nothing of importance, Holmes."

_"That_ is nothing?" Holmes asked, pointing to his friend's jaw.

"It was a minor disagreement with a patient that led to an altercation."

While this had some ring of truth to it, Holmes sensed there was so much more than his friend was telling him. The fact that Watson focused his gaze unnecessarily on the handkerchief he was using to dab at the spots of blood still oozing from his split lip told him as much. He waited patiently, his gray eyes staring as if trying to penetrate that skull to wade in the contents within.

"I give you my word it has nothing to do with your investigation."

"Now _that,_ at least, I believe."

Watson's visible flinch and then challenging glare caught him off guard. He had not expected such a reaction from his friend. He had never doubted Watson's word, as the man had never broken it, nor given him any cause to believe otherwise. At least now he was meeting Holmes' eyes...and speaking some truth.

"Leave off, Holmes," Watson finally stated warningly. "This has nothing to do with your investigation."

"Comforting as that may be, I still believe there is some cause for concern. I had thought by now I would have earned at least_ some_ trust from you."

Exhaling a long sigh, Watson laid back in his chair wearily. All the fight had gone out of him at such a blunt statement from his friend. He stared at the ceiling trying to put his thoughts into some sort of order.

"Holmes, I promise you, it is not a matter of trust. It's not as if I went running to the Yard, in case you hadn't noticed. I simply cannot speak of these things at this time. Give me some time to sort things out."

Holmes had opened his mouth to say something to this when Watson met his gaze with one pleading for understanding and patience from his friend.

"Please. I'm asking you to stay out of this."

Irritated with his own weakness, Holmes found he could not deny his friend's pleading gaze. His frown had been answer enough, apparently, as Watson seemed satisfied. Though, in Holmes' own mind, the matter was far from settled.

~o~o~o~

Hunkering down in his shadowy niche between two crumbling shacks, Holmes watched Watson as he made his first stop on rounds that day. He saw various people approach the doctor as he took to asking questions of those who had voluntarily requested his services. Holmes could not hear what was being said, but every inch of Watson's stance screamed a level of tension and alertness. Something had him on edge, and his lookout as well.

Holmes had noticed the boy trailing the doctor. With the grime that coated the raggedly dressed figure, he could not put a specific age to the lad. He did not recognize him as one of the Irregulars, which intrigued him. It was not uncommon for the doctor to call upon the Irregulars these days nearly as often as Holmes himself. Holmes had already set them to quietly sniffing out any leads on their case. Thinking all of them sufficiently occupied, he had not thought of them beyond the daily reports he received. This boy was obviously not working with them, or had been specifically picked for the tasks the doctor chose.

He watched as Watson and the boy were welcomed into a shack that appeared to be reserved for just such use. Within minutes the boy re-emerged to beckon Watson's first patient. The badly beaten young woman looked as though she had been poorly used by one of her clients and in need of Watson's care. Sometimes Holmes wondered how the doctor could do it. Holmes, while not possessed of an overly compassionate nature, could not help feeling the hopelessness in these people. He wondered yet again at the man's resilience and inner strength as he helped people others thought beyond helping without himself being weighed down by the futility of it. He gave hope and compassion where others would give apathy and disgust.

The moment the patient had entered, the boy reappeared once more to stand as a sentinel just outside the old, tattered blanket that served as a door. Despite the layers of clothing and oversized cap, the boy appeared to be shivering. Holmes had no doubt Watson was paying the lad, but still wondered what interest he must have had beyond needing an assistant. Watson rarely ever needed assistance with his patients, and that was usually a parent simply keeping a child from growing too unruly.

He had little time to consider these things when his question was answered. The boy really had been acting as a guard and lookout rather than an assistant. Holmes watched as the boy darted inside for a moment, before Watson appeared in the doorway beside him. He was glad to see the bulge of the gun in the doctor's pocket and the casually held weighted walking stick as a hulk of a man approached from a nearby alley formed of various similar shacks. Holmes tensed as the man stalked right up to Watson.

Even from this distance, Holmes could hear the man's drunken ravings. He accused Watson of taking his "girls". He waved his arms threateningly while condemning Watson's attempts to help these poor women. Watson took all of this with the casual air of a man having a pleasant conversation with a friend in the park. Holmes smiled briefly knowing not only where his Watson had picked up this trick, but at how badly this dullard was falling for it. Despite the relaxed pose, Holmes could tell quite easily that the doctor was standing in such a way as to make nearly any combative or evasive movement in less time than it took to think. Given the man's state of inebriation, Watson would likely have no need for the gun.

Whatever it was Watson had spoken in a calm voice was too low for Holmes to catch. But it served to only further infuriate the man. As he threatened actions that Holmes thought anatomically impossible against his friend, he began to tense once more wondering if he should intervene. Watson smiled serenely as the man continued screaming obscenities that had the women standing around staring in open shock. His softly spoken words caused the man to step forward as if ready to attack physically more so than verbally.

A moment later the scene erupted in violence when the boy that had been standing behind Watson darted forward. Though Watson had not been ready for it, the grace and speed with which he moved left even Holmes astounded. He watched as Watson grabbed the boy by the shoulder to haul him backward and away from the drunk. Unfortunately, this had left him only one arm with which to ward off the fist that aimed for his head. The arm only partially deflected the ham-sized fist going on to graze Watson's war-wounded shoulder. He paled visibly, but managed to roll himself and the boy out of the way of the next swing.

"Get out of here! _Now!"_ Watson shouted to the boy as he flung him away from the the mêlée.

Some of the women had finally broken into a run, themselves. Whether it was to find a local constable or to hide, Holmes couldn't be sure. But he watched Watson rolling back to his feet as the boy hesitated and then ran. Something in that exchange had sparked a familiarity that made him wonder. But there was no time to pursue that line of thought as the drunk swiftly closed in on his friend. Having decided it was time to step in himself, Holmes rose to his feet.

He never even made it past the edge of shadows he had concealed himself within before the fight was over. With a perfectly timed and delivered swing of his walking stick, Watson had left the man lying unconscious on the ground. He waited just long enough to ensure that the man was indeed unconscious before returning to the shack. A moment later he reappeared to look around in dismay. Holmes found himself once again crouching out of sight as Watson's eyes scanned the area. All those who had gathered to see him were gone.

His shoulders slumping tiredly, he disappeared into the shack once more to retrieve his bag before walking away in the direction the boy had gone. Holmes, now having pieced together at least some of what was troubling his friend, quietly slunk out of the alley and back toward Baker Street in the opposite direction.

~o~o~o~

Later that evening Holmes sat puffing away at his pipe in contentment awaiting the doctor's return. He was not sure how this little discussion was going to play out, as much of it would depend on Watson's reaction. But he was not about to give the man a chance to evade his questions; especially now that he had some inclination of Mrs. Hudson's involvement. Her mysterious reappearance this afternoon bearing mud from the gutters of the same area as Watson's earlier rounds had his mind reeling for a moment. When she smartly told him off and that it was Dr. Watson's story to tell, he swiftly changed out of his filthy clothing and resumed his fire-side chair to put all the pieces together.

Now having drawn his own conclusions, he was ready to confront the doctor.

"You might consider a hot bath for that shoulder, Watson," Holmes commented, not even having to see his friend to tell he had had some trouble shedding his coat.

"Tea first," Watson grunted for a reply heading for the set on the table.

"I have come across a most delightful little puzzle," Holmes started, hoping levity would help his friend's obviously distracted mood. "A most intriguing piece of work, really."

Something in Holmes' words sparked a suspicion that had Watson tensing visibly. Though he schooled his features into a politely inquiring mask, Holmes saw something as his friend returned to his seat with forced casualness. The cool glare edged in fear from those green eyes behind that impassive mask left no doubt in Holmes' mind there was something going on in Watson's mind that he would not like.

"You know."

Holmes was all but overwhelmed with the feeling he had missed something. He had thought he had all the pieces of the puzzle and had even assembled them into something that made sense. Seeing this, he began to reconsider. However, he had already begun, so he might as well finish.

"Yes. It would seem someone has been stirring up some discontent among the lower classes of women in recent weeks. Someone has been giving them the idea that they can do better for themselves if only given a chance."

Watson blinked. The glare and fear dissipated so rapidly that the relief behind those eyes startled Holmes. He had expected a number of reactions. Such relief as he now saw Watson struggling to hide was not among them. His curiosity spiked again as Watson quickly recovered himself and motioned with his cup for Holmes to continue.

"Go on, old man. Don't stop now. You're doing quite well," Watson teased with a grin.

"It would seem said person has someone with a connection in funding and organization. Someone they can trust to oversee and coordinate these little gatherings."

"Really?" Watson feigned surprise. "I wonder who would do such a thing?"

Now Holmes smiled openly. He had no need to ask further, as he already knew the answers to most of his questions. His pipe lit to his satisfaction, Watson returned the knowing smile.

"It was Mary's idea, some years ago. But with one thing and another, she was never able to do so herself. When she passed away, I kept what she had left me in her will but could not bring myself to touch it."

"The pearls."

Watson nodded. "I felt they were the one thing that belonged to her and should remain as such. However, this idea had always been her intention, and I have no reason to believe she would disapprove of it now. I sold the pearls shortly before Christmas for a tidy sum and asked Mrs. Hudson if she would help me with this endeavor. She has been a remarkable help in all of this."

"But it seems you've earned the ire of some of their less than desireable employers."

The suspicious glance Watson shot him before turning his attention back to his cup of tea again tickled the back of his mind with something he was not liking at all.

"You were there."

"Nicely delivered, by the way, dear chap."

Holmes compliment appeared to have no effect as Watson continued to avoid his gaze.

"Just a little altercation, as I said. It was bound to happen sooner or later."

The carefully neutral tone did nothing to allay his own suspicions at this point.

"Was there more?" Watson asked.

Taken aback by his friend's sudden change in attitude, Holmes began to grow tired of these little games. Obviously Watson was still hiding something.

"Unless there is more you wish to share..."

"In that case, I shall retire. It has been a long day, as you've seen for yourself. Now that you have your answers, I'll kindly ask you again to mind your own matters and leave mine to me."

Holmes was left frowning into the fire exploring his thoughts as his friend exited the sitting room.


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

His own investigation going nowhere at present, Holmes found himself still contemplating his friend's odd behavior of late the following night. It was well beyond Watson's usual time to return. As Holmes glanced at the clock on the mantle for possibly the hundredth time tonight, he was quite ready to take to the streets himself. However, with his friend's far-ranging rounds as a doctor, he could not begin to guess where the man might be. It would seem the best course would be to start where Watson was most likely to have encountered problems on his rounds.

With only a few minutes until the clock would strike ten, Holmes shed his dressing gown as he headed for his bedroom. The furious pounding on the front door moments later diverted him as he took the stairs two at a time. The only time Watson would have knocked was if he was without his key. The loss of his keys mean something more sinister in Holmes' mind.

Holmes flung open the front door before Mrs. Hudson had even had a chance to exit her rooms. His fears were confirmed as the same ragged boy who had accompanied Watson on his rounds previously stood there supporting an almost incoherent Watson. Staggering, Watson lost his balance as he all but fell in through the now open door. Reflexively, Holmes reached to catch him.

"What happened?" Holmes asked the scarf-covered boy with his hat pulled low.

"I don't know. I found him like this."

The voice behind the wrappings was more mature than Holmes had anticipated. His mind filed it away for later, as he scanned Watson for any signs of injury. The man began babbling incoherently in response to his friend's touch.

"Where?"

The lad hesitated. A moment later Holmes just managed to catch him by the shoulder as he let go of Watson and tried to flee. Holmes spun the boy around viciously to face him. The combination of shock at recognition of those green terror-stricken eyes and the unexpected swing of the young man's fist left him standing empty-handed. The young man was out the door and down the street before Holmes even had a chance to put a name to those eyes. However, he had no chance to process this new information when Mrs. Hudson arrived.

"Dr. Watson!" she cried as she fell to her knees beside him.

Slamming the door shut and locking it, Holmes returned to his friend lying helplessly flailing on the foyer floor.

"No fever," Mrs. Hudson told him, folding her shawl and placing it under the doctor's head.

"Get Dr. Cummings."

Mrs. Hudson was on her feet and grabbing a coat in seconds. Unwilling to leave his friend on the cold floor of the foyer, Holmes slid an arm underneath the quaking shoulders.

"No!" Watson cried fearfully.

"Watson, if you can—"

"No! No doctor."

"Watson, you're home. I'm—"

"No doctor."

For the first time since Holmes had caught him falling through the doorway, those green eyes opened. They were glazed, distant, and dilated. Holmes' heart leapt in his chest as they tried to focus on him.

"Drugs," Watson said weakly.

"Watson—"

"Just take me to my room. I've been drugged," he forced out between trembling lips as he struggled to sit up.

"Do you know what it is?" Holmes asked, hoping his friend would stay with him long enough to get some answers. "Was there poison?"

Watson mumbled something incoherent before closing his eyes. His face contorted into a mask of pain for a moment as he saw something his mind had conjured for his thoughts alone.

"Please..." Watson begged, his whole body quivering now with the force of the emotions evoked by what he could see taking place only in his mind.

"Watson! Look at me!" Holmes commanded.

"Oh God...I killed him."

"Watson, you're—"

"It was an accident. I was trying to help him!"

"Watson! Tell me what happened!"

Mrs. Hudson had reappeared, dressed to venture into the cold.

"No!" Watson cried again, seeing Mrs. Hudson. "Room...my room. Please!"

Mrs. Hudson took one look at the man huddled on her foyer floor curling in on himself and away from Holmes' touch. She needed no further encouragement as she dashed out into the snow. Holmes watched her leave as he again tried to turn his attentions to his friend, now shaking with sobs as tears rolled down the side of his face.

"Rhona...forgive me."

~o~o~o~

Hours later Watson was at last sleeping soundly in his own bed. It had taken Holmes and Dr. Cummings some time to get him settled as he was only half aware of his surroundings. Caught in some nightmare only he could see, the man had alternated between begging forgiveness of more than one person and demanding that the two of them leave his room immediately. Holmes continued to run through a list over and over again of possible poisons that would display such symptoms as Dr. Cummings rattled them off. Several fit the profile, but none were lethal. Dr. Watson would likely as not be in some pain come morning, but otherwise unharmed for the incident.

Only briefly did Holmes wonder where the doctor's bag, gun, stick, coat, and other possessions had gone. Presumably, robbery had not been the intent as his still possessed his wallet, money, watch, and other more valuable possessions. After seeing Watson settled, Dr. Cummings had left Holmes to his bedside vigil. As his friend seemed to be resting peacefully now, Holmes turned his mind to piecing together the events of the night.

He had nowhere near enough data to begin tracing this back to the person or persons involved. The fact that the doctor was relatively unharmed beyond the fading bruise across his jaw told much. They had not been planning to harm him physically, as a blow to the head would have easily accomplished disabling Watson. On the other hand, they had gone to an inordinate amount of trouble to see the man suffer on a mental level, as they had obviously used a combination of plants and drugs that are known to cause hallucinations even in a healthy mind. With the things that already tormented his friend's mind, he could not begin to imagine what this was doing to him now; or what kind of permanent effects it might produce. Frustrated and worried, Holmes backtracked through the last several weeks. His mind continued to draw a blank. He could only hope Watson would be able to tell him more when he woke.

Several times during the night Watson stirred fitfully in his sleep. Holmes soothing voice and gentle clasping of hands was enough to settle him once more without fully waking. Slowly the hours crawled by as Holmes kept watch. Shortly before sunrise, he was rewarded with a slight cough and confused murmur as Watson finally woke.

"Holmes?"

"Yes, dear chap. You're in your room now, safe."

"What happened?"

"You do not know?" Holmes asked, unable to mask his disappointment.

Watson's eyes, still somewhat dilated, had lost most of their glazed and distant appearance. As his brow wrinkled in confusion as he struggled to recall what had happened. The last memory he recalled before waking here had his eyes flying open wide again in terror as they sought his friend's questioning gray eyes. Whatever he was expecting or looking for, he did not find in Holmes' expression, for he began to relax again a moment later.

"How did I get here?" he finally asked, warily watching Holmes' reaction.

"A boy brought you here. You were drugged. He said he found you."

He realized Holmes was watching his reactions just as closely. He struggled to maintain control of his own expressions as he knew Holmes could read them all so very well.

"Did you question him?"

Now Holmes' eyes took on a penetrating keenness as he absorbed the fear behind his friend's seemingly innocent question.

"No. When I asked where he had found you, he fled. I was not going to leave you to chase him."

Watson could not help the sigh of relief that escaped him. This little verbal dance had exhausted him. Closing his eyes once more, he squeezed Holmes' hand reassuringly.

"Get some rest, Holmes. We will talk tomorrow."

Holmes squeezed Watson's hand in return before it was taken away and placed back under the blankets. He hesitated only a moment wondering of Watson even realized it was already the next day. As Watson rolled onto his side putting his back to Holmes, he had little choice but to accept the fact that his presence was no longer welcome. Miffed, but not particularly hurt by this, Holmes quietly made his way back down to the sitting room.


	7. Chapter Six

_**A/N: **Here is where things get to be a little tricky. I've done as much research as I can into the 19th Century judicial system of this particular time period. I will admit to a lack of information leading to any flaws. But, as near as I can tell, it was a swift process then. If I've made any serious mistakes, please feel free to point me in the direction of some resources I can use when I go back to clean this up._

* * *

**Chapter Six**

A few hours later Holmes listened as Watson made his way down the stairs to the sitting room. Breakfast had only just been laid out by Mrs. Hudson. She had informed him that the doctor said he would be down shortly. Relieved that his suspicions as to what plants and chemicals had been used were correct, he waited for Watson to make his appearance. Not surprisingly, Watson was dressed and ready for the day. In an attempt to allay Holmes' lingering fears, he obviously made himself as presentable as possible. The lingering tremor in his hands and pinched expression told Holmes all he needed to know of the remaining side-effects.

"Coffee?" Holmes offered, pleasantly.

The grunt he received served as a reply while Watson made his way carefully to the table chair. As if a man suffering from the after-effects too much drink, Watson gingerly sat himself down before folding his arms and placing his head on top of them. Holmes took pity on his friend and prepared a cup of coffee to his liking.

"Come on now, old chap," Holmes said pushing the cup across the table. "You and I both know you'll feel better for it."

His head still resting on one arm, Watson freed one hand to grope blindly for the cup. Holmes very nearly snickered as a memory of their last encounter with too much brandy had left his friend in a similar state once upon a time. Considering the seriousness of the situation, it was easy enough to conceal his amusement. Watson's hand finally found the cup and he raised his head only long enough to down the entire cup of scalding liquid. He didn't even bother to open his eyes as he set the cup aside and returned to his previous position.

"Perhaps a little more rest..." Holmes suggested tentatively.

Watson gently shook his head slightly before finally taking a deep breath and sitting up. "I have to go to Scotland Yard."

Holmes watched as Watson sat up, still slumping, and began to munch tenatively on a piece of toast. Quickly he poured his friend another cup of steaming coffee. "How much do you remember?"

"Some," Watson finally answered. "Not much, though, to tell the truth."

Though he was obviously still concealing much, Holmes sensed truth in these words.

"My last clear recollection was from around six o'clock," Watson volunteered, his eyes clouding and his brow furrowing with something akin to sadness. "I had just—"

Watson's next words were cut off as the front door bell rang. Curious, Holmes glanced at the clock wondering who would be calling before nine in the morning. His glance at Watson confirmed he had not been expecting anyone either. Holmes waited patiently as the page-boy announced Inspector Lestrade. His eyebrows rose nearly into his hairline as Watson's face darkened for a moment before returning to a blank mask.

"Good morning, Lestrade," Holmes greeted brightly.

Taking in the man's rumpled appearance and overall lack of sleep, Holmes could not resist tweaking the man with falsely cheerful attitude. The uncomfortable glances he threw Watson, however, announced the he was not there for the detective.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," Lestrade greeted stiffly.

Despite his own discomfort, Watson noted the inspector's use of his title and turned to face him fully. He only did that when addressing him professionally.

"Looks like you've had a rough night, Inspector," Watson commented, eyeing him curiously.

Lestrade nodded, shuffling his feet restlessly.

"I take it you are here on official business, then?" Holmes queried, having noted the exchange.

Again Lestrade nodded. Finally he blew out a sigh as he folded himself into a nearby chair. "Unfortunately. I will have you know that I volunteered. It did not seem...approrpriate...to send someone else."

"Lestrade?" Holmes asked curiously, wondering why the man kept glancing at Watson. He could not ever recall seeing the man so discomfited.

Finally Lestrade straightened up, facing Dr. Watson directly. "I want you to know, also, that I don't believe it."

"Lestrade, what's going on?" Watson finally asked.

"I'm here to arrest Dr. John Watson for the murder of Charles Barnes."

For a moment the silence descended on the room. Watson closed his eyes once more as if in pain. The tension was broken a moment later as Holmes burst into laughter.

"I never credited you with much of a sense of humor, Lestrade—"

"Holmes..."

"Or, perhaps—"

"Holmes..."

"There was evidence found at the scene—" Lestrade tried to break in, his face reddening.

"Of course, when you take into account—"

"Enough!"

Watson's shout was enough to effectively silence the two before the real bickering started. Now having their undivided attention, Watson rose slowly to his feet to face Lestrade.

"Thank you. I know this isn't easy for you."

"Watson..."

Turning to face his friend, Watson gave Holmes a sad smile before it turned into a warning glare. "Stay out of it, Holmes."

Lestrade himself could not have been more shocked by this exchange than Holmes himself. He had been counting on the doctor to deny any involvement and turn to Holmes to help him. He didn't know what to make of this. Watson was acting as if he already knew. He was acting _guilty._

"I take it you have constables and a wagon waiting?" Watson queried, reaching for his spare coat on the rack where it had been drying a couple of days earlier.

"Watson!" Holmes finally seemed to have regained his faculties for speech as he jumped to his feet.

"No, Holmes. I said you are to stay out of it, and I meant it," Watson reiterated. Meeting Holmes' gaze directly he stated very pointedly, "Your time is better spent elsewhere."

For a moment Holmes questioned his friend silently. Eventually the two of them nodded in understanding, leaving Lestrade confused. He knew something of a conversation had taken place, though he couldn't fathom what had been said between the two through such subtle gestures and glances. It was a talent he'd seen the two long-time companions indulge in on countless occasions when in the company of others. Even after all these years, it never ceased to amaze him.

His heart lightened by this exchange, however, as he realized there was much more going on here than he could even begin to guess. Somehow he knew, Watson was not being abandoned in this, despite his openly stated requests. Nodding to Holmes himself, Lestrade turned to follow Watson down the stairs.

~o~o~o~

Alone in the sitting room, Holmes took a few minutes to gather his scattered thoughts. He knew this whole thing was a farce. Watson had been here in his room for most of the night. It all came down to data. He needed to know what supposed evidence had been found. He could easily guess as to the most likely ones, as they had not been on Watson when he returned. He needed to know the time of death and all other facts related to the case.

Watson had warned him not to follow to Scotland Yard.

He needed to help Watson.

Watson had told him silently to go back to the source.

He needed to know what Watson was thinking.

Watson had given him clues.

He needed to piece together those parts he already had at hand.

Watson had been attacked so they could get those items as evidence.

He needed to find that young man.

Watson did not want that to happen.

He needed to know what that young man had to do with all of this.

A flash of terror-stricken green eyes above a face wrapped heavily in Watson's scarf penetrated Holmes' thoughts. Oh yes, he knew those eyes, though the features he could not place. The combination of familiar and not had Holmes growling to himself as he puffed away on his pipe. He was going to wind up chasing himself in circles. Thought was not going to be enough in this case. He knew where he needed to start. Setting aside his pipe and forgotten breakfast, he headed for his room to prepare for a long day.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

Holmes had found exactly what he had been expecting.

The man known as Charles Barnes had been attacked with Watson's walking stick and shot through the heart. He was the same man that had attacked Doctor Watson while Holmes watched from the shadows. The murder had taken place around half past eight with nearly a dozen witnesses. All of the people who came forward to give a statement swore it was the doctor they had seen committing the brutal murder. Dr. John Watson, well known among many of these inhabitants of the lower class sections of the city, could not be mistaken for anyone else. His coat had also been recovered from where it had been dumped in a nearby alley. The blood splattered from hem to collar spoke of the viciousness of the attack.

All of this made sense to Holmes, as he knew this entire scenario to have been carefully set up by someone aware of their movements of late. He could find no flaw in the plan. He no longer had any doubts as to the involvement of the young man who had brought Watson home. Watson had not been at the murder scene, and as far as he could determine, had not been making any rounds beyond six o'clock in the evening. He had been with that nameless youth. But even that location continued to evade his best efforts, along with the person in question.

For all Holmes could tell, the young man did not exist.

Frustrated, but not overly so, Holmes continued his investigation into the previous day's events. His first real concern set in when Watson refused to detail where he had been leading up to the time he was attacked. Though he did not remember the attack itself or the hours of delirium and hallucination brought on by the drugs he'd been given, Holmes did not doubt he remembered the rest of the evening in detail. Yet he refused to speak.

Nearing the end of the day, Holmes found himself standing just outside Watson's cell. For a moment he signaled to the constable to wait as he crept up to the door to look inside. He well knew how uncomfortable it was for everyone at Scotland Yard to have one of their own locked up at all, let alone for murder. And it being Watson made it all the more difficult. Likely, not a one of them believed the doctor had committed the crime. He had no doubts that they were treating Watson well, for the time being in the hopes that this whole situation would resolve itself shortly.

Nonetheless, Holmes wanted to see for himself.

Peaking through the bars near the top of the door, Holmes found Watson writing away in one of his brown personal journals. Seeing enough, Holmes motioned for the constable to unlock the door to let him in. Watson didn't even bother to look up from what he was writing as the door opened. Holmes waited as patiently as the doctor while the constable locked the door behind him.

"Find what you were looking for yet?" Watson asked, finishing whatever it was he was writing and folding the pencil inside the journal.

When Holmes refused to answer, Watson looked up sharply.

"You're protecting him."

Setting the journal aside, Watson rose to face his friend. "Not in the way you think."

"You asked me to stay out of it and give you time. You told me today to stay out of _this_. How long are you going to allow this to continue?"

"As long as I must."

"They are going to put you on trial you for_ murder!"_ Holmes snapped.

"I know."

Holmes found himself speechless once again as his friend confronted him impassively. This was no mask. Watson sincerely knew what he was facing, and was fully prepared to do so.

"I gave my word, Holmes. I hope you can understand what that means."

Holmes stared incredulously.

"You won't find him, unless he wants to be found. It is not safe for him to come forward, and I've instructed him on what to do should I not appear. He will learn of this eventually, and I will not allow him to become involved."

The absolute calm in his friend's voice convinced him more than the words themselves that this was the end of the matter, as far as he was concerned. Holmes shuddered inside as he realized what his friend was saying. Unless someone else came forward as witness in Watson's defense, he would be sentenced to death for murder. He was willing to do that to keep this youth's identity a secret.

Scattered thoughts and bits of pieces began to coalesce in Holmes' mind.

"Very well, then," he finally grated out. "You seem to think there is another way."

"I do. Go back to the beginning, Holmes. You know there was more going on in the criminal world than any number of Yarders could put together. I now have reason to believe you are correct. Someone framed me for murder. Whomever it was that hired this person is tied to the same investigation. We _were_ on the right track, and it likely made them nervous."

Holmes nodded slowly in understanding. "You know something."

"I do."

"But you cannot share it."

"It is not mine to tell."

Holmes stalked to the far end of the cell in an attempt to reign in his slowly rising anger.

"You _will_ know everything, Holmes. Not now, but you will. For now, you have a place to start."

"What of you?" Holmes finally asked, checking his fit of temper.

To this Watson grinned, as if trying to find a way to lighten the mood. "What of me? It's not as if I'm going to be getting into any further trouble while enjoying the hospitality of London's gaols."

Holmes' mind rebelled at his friend's humor. "You would be surprised."

"Really, Holmes. I doubt I will come to further harm here. If they wanted me dead, it would have been so already," Watson said wearily.

"You are correct, of course. This was likely either a message or a distraction to keep me off my previous lines of inquiry."

"All the more reason for you to continue."

To this, Holmes nodded. As badly as he wanted to pursue his original line of investigation for his friend, he knew Watson would not allow it. Whatever it was he had given his word to keep secret, he was not about to back down.

"Very well, then," Holmes replied, knocking on the door.

"Good night, Holmes," Watson said serenely, taking up his journal and seat on the bench once more.

~o~o~o~

Holmes barely registered the changing of the days as his investigation into the criminal underworld all but consumed him. He rarely saw his rooms at Baker Street for more than the few minutes it took to change his costume. Mrs. Hudson made a point of harassing him about his eating and sleeping habits at every turn. She assured him she was visiting Watson frequently, though he barely noticed her words. His frantic search for both the boy and the clues to the organization behind a multitude of crimes that staggered even his mind came up with almost nothing. He had managed to confirm that there was an organization head, but not where or what their intended purpose was at this point in time.

The murderer himself had obviously fled London, as Holmes could find no trace. Any man even remotely resembling Watson he chased down with near obsessive fervor. Though the Irregulars tailed each one with equal fervor, no ties to any criminal activity could be uncovered. Holmes began to despair of finding the answers he needed in time.

One day in late February, as he dragged himself through the front door exhausted to numbness, he was greeted by Mrs. Hudson. Her red-rimmed eyes and puffy face registered somewhere in the back of his mind as an alert. When she fell to tears right there before him, his mind found its last reserves and focused. Through the sobs she valiantly tried to contain, she told him of the trial and its inevitable conclusion.

The next thing Holmes became aware of was sitting on the bottom stair in the foyer as Mrs. Hudson hovered over him. Her tears had been replaced with frowns of concern. His mind tried to come to terms with how much time had passed since he had last eaten or slept.

But, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew the time was running out. Despite all he and Lestrade had done, the trial had been pushed through. It had been swift and decisive. Though this did not surprise him, something tickled the back of his mind as he tried to formulate cohesive thoughts once more. Above it all, one thing rang through his mind repeatedly wiping out all other thoughts with brutal clarity.

In two weeks, Watson would be hanged like a common criminal.

~o~o~o~

Holmes' visit to Watson was only surprising in that it had taken so long. Though some Yarders and constables whispered behind his back that he had again abandoned his friend, others who had been around long enough to know better whispered of the evidence he would provide to clear his friend's name. Still, it was the whispers that implied Holmes had given him up for a murderer that made his blood boil. He only barely managed to push the haze of silent rage back as he was given entrance to Watson's cold, damp, miserable accommodations.

Again Holmes found the man writing serenely in one of his journals. This time he caught the barest glimpse of a sketch on the opposite page before his friend closed it and placed it aside.

"I had begun to wonder when you would find out," Watson commented, his expression assuring Holmes he had not been offended or concerned by his lack of appearance these last few days since the trial.

"I'm sorry I was not there."

Watson waved this off. "I know why. And, by which I take it you have not had much luck in your investigation."

Holmes shoulders slumped in dejection as he shook his head sadly. "I have only confirmed my suspicions, but there are still no links."

"And the real murderer has likely fled London completely, else you would have found him."

Holmes hesitated before nodding. He really had not wanted to face his friend in these circumstances with nothing beyond more bad news.

"It's not your fault, Holmes. You did not uncover Moriarty's operation in a matter of days. I don't see how this would be any different."

"It _is! _You were not facing a death sentence, then! I cannot do this, Watson. You must tell the boy to come to me. If he is not safe—"

"No."

"Damn!" Holmes resisted the urge to break his knuckles on the wall as he cursed. "What would you have me do?! Shall I just stand around and watch you—"

"No."

Holmes took several deep breaths as he forcibly calmed himself. "What then?"

"If you truly wish to help, you will trust me."

The hesitant look he threw Holmes had the detective's eyes narrowing suspiciously. "And?"

For a moment Watson seemed to struggle with something in his own mind. Finally he nodded as if to himself before meeting his friend's gaze levelly.

"There are some documents in the top drawer of my bureau. I would like you to look over my will for any final adjustments. If this is too difficult for you, have your brother go over it."

Holmes' already pale face took on a deathly pallor.

"Will you do this for me?" Watson asked earnestly.

He felt his knees buckle as Watson gently guided him to the wooden planks that served as a bed and bench. The roaring of his heartbeat in his ears overrode any words Watson had spoken. For the next several seconds he was aware only of the narrowing of his world to those thoughts that centered around the reality of the situation.

"Better now?" Watson's voice gently prodded him some minutes later.

Holmes nodded distantly. Taking a deep breath, he gathered his shattered thoughts.

"I'm sorry," Watson said sadly.

The softly whispered apology stung like a lash across his soul. Holmes shook his head as if in denial. He still could not contemplate a life without Watson by his side, but he was beginning to comprehend the futility of his denial. His mouth felt as dry as a summer desert at noontime as he swallowed thickly trying to find the words he knew he had to speak.

"I shall do so tonight."

"Thank you."

The naked relief in Watson's voice sparked his curiosity, but he knew better than to ask. "Is there anything else I can do for you, dear friend?"

The tenderness that came through beyond Holmes softly asked question made Watson's heart twist painfully in his chest once more. He did not have to imagine how hard this was for him. He only hoped that what he had planned would keep his friend from falling back into the habits of old that had nearly destroyed him so very recently. Watson could not find it in himself to face his friend with this one last request.

"Yes. Do not attend."

Even as Holmes' head snapped around, Watson kept his gaze firmly on the wall across from them. "There will be witnesses enough. You have no need, and I would not have you suffer that."

Holmes swallowed thickly around the lump in his throat. "If that is your wish."

"It is."

"Good man," Watson said softly, his expression once more relaxing into that serenity Holmes could not help admiring.

With a sigh, Watson heaved himself off the bench as Holmes did the same. Neither could find words to fill the space of time that occurred next. Watson's eyes held a glint that told Holmes there was more going on than he knew, but that he would not be left in the dark for much longer. Holmes nodded as their silent exchange spoke so much more than either could have put into words. Watson clasped his hand warmly, grateful for his friend's understanding as they parted ways.

As the door closed behind Holmes, Watson sincerely hoped it would be the last time he would see his dear friend.


	9. Chapter Eight

_**A/N: **I know I'm kind of stretching the realistic timeline here, because Freud did not publish the first paper on his studies of cocaine until about 1883. _

_Did I hear someone begging for answers? I belive the answers to questions that first came to light in Part II will also be answered here. Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

Holmes huddled more deeply into his coat as the train continued northward. It had been less than a day since he'd done as Watson requested and retrieved the will from among the other papers. There was at least one letter there addressed to Holmes directly, but he had no doubts what it was likely to contain and refused to touch it. Most of the will had been as he expected. Watson had left him such money as was needed to cover his share of their rent at Baker Street for six months. All his case journals and personal effects were left to Holmes unless another stepped forward to claim rights to them. All other assets were to be liquidated and the remaining amount left to someone by the name of William Docherty.

William Docherty, son of Rhona and Alan Docherty had been born in Edinburgh, Scotland on the 20th of April in the year 1875. At the age of fifteen he had been disowned by his father when it came to light that the boy had been involved in some questionably legal activities. From what little Holmes had gleaned via telegram, the boy had been badly treated growing up by an abusive drunk of a father. The mother, also under the thumb of her tyrannical husband, had essentially been helpless to prevent it. The marriage had been arranged, but had been swiftly finalized in the eyes of the law. The birth of a son some seven months later left everyone questioning the boy's legitimacy. The fact that Rhona Docherty never conceived again only served to further encourage these rumors.

Holmes had done all he could from a distance. He did not wish to leave London at such a time, but there seemed little choice. He knew he could not confront Watson directly, as he would refuse to answer. But he also knew this had been Watson's way of giving him some of the answers to his questions.

For all he had come to know of his dear friend, he could not even begin to imagine what he would find next.

~o~o~o~

Twenty years ago a young man by the name of John Watson had been studying medicine in the hopes of gaining his degree and license before taking up a career as a military surgeon. Before the horrors of war that would leave their marks on him forever, he was a very different man. He and his brother had been on amiable speaking terms, then. Though they'd never been close as John was always considered to be the "spare" and Henry junior the "heir". Henry had been marked to carry on the family name and business, while John was expected to take on the family tradition of military service as it was the more likely to end in early death.

While home during the summer holiday between sessions in 1874, Henry had brought John the case of a friend addicted to morphine and other opiates. Rory Millar had sunk to a low that even had his friends in despair. John had done all he could to help the poor man to break the addiction using a weakened solution of cocaine to counter the effects of the opiates. In the end, it was a cocaine overdose that killed him. It was deemed a suicide, though all involved knew the overdose had been stolen from John's own supply.

During the course of these events, John had met Rory's little sister, Rhona. Fearing the wrath of both their parents, they had kept their relationship secret. It was obvious Rhona's father had other plans for his daughter's future. As the summer months were coming to an end and John was preparing to return to his studies in London, they decided to marry in secret. This marriage was witnessed by John's elder brother. John returned to London already planning for his career and his new life as a married man.

A month later the marriage was annulled. John was devastated to learn that he had been betrayed by his elder brother. Henry had apparently taken a fancy to Rhona, and thought to have her for himself. By betraying their marriage to his father, he hoped to have it annulled and then he would marry her himself. Instead, the marriage was annulled and Rhona swiftly married off to an older, wealthier man by the name of Alan Docherty.

The child that was born the following April bore none of the marks of either his biological or legal father, but could have been a twin for the mother. The only distinguishing factor between them were the color of his eyes. While hers had been blue, his had been green. Thus did the whispers of legitimacy begin to taint their names.

Docherty was a drunk with little more to do than beat his wife and household staff into submission. The boy he legally claimed as his own heir he treated the harshest of all. The mother was not allowed to interfere in his brutal upbringing. Within days of the first reports of the Battle of Maiwand, Rhona Docherty took her own life. Despite her husband's brutal nature, she had managed to secret from him a box of papers that were to be given to her son upon his maturity.

At the age of five William Docherty was left to the nonexistent mercies of his legal father. The elder Docherty had only grown more vicious as the years passed. By the age of ten, William had all but left home, only being dragged back when they could catch him. Whatever life he had made for himself on the streets of Edinburgh had left several of the city's law enforcement officials eyeing him suspiciously. By the age of fifteen, William had been disowned and his father was on the verge of disinheriting him completely. Though all of this was public knowledge by this point, no legal actions had yet been finalized when Alan Docherty died in an accident involving an overturned carriage. Though foul play was suspected, none could be proven and William Docherty inherited the family's remaining possessions. Shortly after selling off all of these said possessions, he had disappeared almost completely. The money from the sales of property and possessions changed hands intact numerous times until it was lost somewhere in the system, untraceable.

For all intents and purposes, William Docherty ceased to exist. Again rumors of murder surfaced periodically in conjunction with the Docherty name. It had been twisted through the years until many believed the boy had even murdered his own mother. It was as though the brutality of the father was expected in light of such bad blood. Or, in some cases, it had never happened and the child had simply been a bad seed. Whatever the motivation behind the rumors, they were vicious and unforgiving in their judgement.

The carefully guarded box of his mother's possessions had been all but forgotten in those intervening years. However, in the autumn of 1894 William Docherty made one last appearance to claim all he had left of the woman who had abandoned him before fading once more into the shadows. It was obvious the boy had spent time on the Continent and probably many other places according to the solicitor who had cared for the box. Had he himself not forgotten the box in the dusty confines of its basement resting place, he likely would have long ago thrown it out convinced the boy would never come to claim it after so long a time. But, claim it he did; and the contents of the box disappeared into the shadows with him. Its secrets remained with the dead.

~o~o~o~

A week after his arrival in Edinburgh, Holmes found himself enduring yet another seemingly endless train ride back to London. His thoughts revolved around the boy he now knew to be Watson's son. From what he could piece together, Watson had at some point given his word that he would not come forward to claim the boy. Though William must have found something in the box his mother had bequeathed naming his true father. Holmes could not fathom why it was still kept such a closely guarded secret by his dear friend unless William himself had asked Watson to maintain that vow.

And now William was the only one who possessed the information to save his father's life.

Holmes' weary heart ached for his friend. He could only imagine Watson's joy at having his son returned to him. Knowing his Watson as he did, there was no doubt in his mind he had done all in his power to keep track of the boy and his mother. Rhona Docherty's suicide had occurred during Watson's suffering enteric fever. By the time he returned to London, it was already too late for her. Though Holmes could recall in the earlier days of their companionship his friend had received the occasional correspondence, he had never dared violate that privacy.

So many things Holmes had wanted to know and never dared to ask. Now he had the answers, he almost wished he hadn't.

_How can I tell him that the flatmate he met so many years ago was himself a killer? _

The ghost of Watson's journal burned only a few months ago now stirred restlessly in Holmes' thoughts. Now he understood. He had thought Watson's dislike of his use of drugs was more from a medical standpoint than any personal experience. Holmes cursed himself upon learning of his friend's experiences. He should have known, should have _seen,_ that there was more to it. The recollection of stealing Watson's supply out of his friend's medical bag and the subsequent reaction to Holmes' statement now made sense. Holmes did not doubt the man obviously blamed himself to this very day.

Holmes found it difficult to contemplate his kind-hearted friend's dismay at the disappearance of his son. He could not even begin to imagine what it had done to him to learn of the rumors that surrounded his son's final disappearance. He was amazed to realize that Watson had never once given any indication that something was amiss. And now he understood why the loss of his brother had barely been noted.

So very many things tumbled around in his head now that it was difficult to put all of this together with the Watson he had known for some fourteen years. In many ways his friend had changed much. But the iron spirit that refused to be broken had instead been tempered and re-forged through these experiences to become only stronger. Even after such losses as that of his wife and children, he did not doubt that his friend had welcomed his son with open arms. The struggle to maintain his silence on the subject as Holmes had voiced at least some of his concern must have been a great one.

As to what had taken place more recently, Holmes could only guess. There had to be some reason why the boy insisted on Watson's silence. Yet William's testimony was the only thing that could save his father now. Watson must have been with him that night leading up to the attack. The boy was involved in all of this in some way, and that whisper of suspicion only made it all the worse. But there was something in his friend's demeanor of late, that told him Watson already knew. Holmes knew in his heart Watson would take his secret to the grave and make Holmes do the same. Too many pieces were yet missing for Holmes to find a way to avoid his friend's fate.

He could only pray that somehow he would find the boy before it was too late.


	10. Chapter Nine

_**A/N: shell less snail, medcat, Riandra,** **Peaceful Defender, Carry, **and** Guests**. Thank you for all the wonderful and insightful reviews you have provided along with the help and encouragement. This whole story has been a greater challenge than I expected._

_For those of you who have either favorited or followed, thank you for all your time and patience. It is greatly appreciated and just as encouraging to me._

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

Weary, cold, and growing desperate, Holmes let himself in quietly upon his return to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson would have been in bed some hours ago, and the maid and page-boy dismissed for the night. Shaking off the remains of slushy snow that clung to his trousers and coat, he divested himself of all but his valise as he entered the sitting room. Craving the comfort of a fire and his pipe, he failed to notice the presence that had invaded his personal domain until a shifting step sounded behind him. Instinctively Holmes ducked and rolled to put his back to the settee.

"I am unarmed. I mean you no harm, Mr. Holmes. I only wished to make sure you were alone."

Recognizing that voice in an instant, Holmes slowly straightened beside the sofa. "Turn up the gas, so that I can see you."

"The windows are uncovered, as you left them. Draw the shades, and I will do so," the voice returned cautiously. "I will not move from this position until you have done."

His eyes now adjusted to the darkness of the sitting room, Holmes could clearly make out the shape of the person standing beside the closed sitting room door. The arms were raised in a gesture of peace. Not daring to turn his back on the shadowy figure, he backed toward the windows slowly. The room was in complete darkness a moment later. Knowing he had the advantage of the keener eyesight, Holmes was surprised when the young man so very easily slipped around the other side of the room to turn up the gas lights near the mantle.

"Thank you," the young man said, turning to face Holmes.

Holmes did not recognize the face, as he had never seen it before. But those eyes he knew. As per the information he had received, he could only imagine what a beauty Rhona had been for the son to appear so. The eyes glittered with an age beyond their years that spoke of many hardships, not unlike those of the father. But the face was smooth and long to the point of femininity. Obviously he had used this to his advantage to masquerade as a child on more than one occasion, including recently.

"You know who I am. It it not safe for either of us for me to be seen here. I came in your back bedroom window, thought it is not broken," William explained, calmly as Holmes eyed him suspiciously.

"Why are you here?" Holmes finally asked, moving to seat himself at his desk chair. It was an effort to hide his excitement at his good fortune, but he had to be certain.

"My father needs your help. You are the only one he trusts."

Holmes motioned to the settee and the boy accepted with a nod of thanks.

"You say Watson needs my help, but what of you? It is _you,_ afterall, that he is protecting," Holmes inquired suspiciously, noting the wording the young man had used.

Again William nodded. "My life is forfeit after tonight. They will know I aided you, whether or not I am seen to do so. What you and my father choose to do after that, is your choice. You may aid me, or you may turn me in to the Yard."

Holmes could detect no falsehood in the young man's voice. Absorbing this, Holmes nodded slowly as if to himself. Taking a deep breath, he moved toward the mantle and retrieved a pipe. He used this action to cover the first glimmers of anger that attempted to creep into his consciousness. He knew the boy was not entirely to blame, but he wanted so very badly to give in to that voice.

"Start at the beginning," Holmes finally prompted gruffly.

"You already know that much," William countered. "We don't have much time, so I will spare you the details of my childhood. Needless to say, it was not pleasant, and I was inclined to become devoutly loyal to the man who unofficially adopted me and brought me into an organization that turned crime into a business on a scale of which you cannot conceive. I was very young, and very foolish.

"I do not doubt that they were behind the murder of the man Alan Docherty. No, I do not name him father, especially now that I know the truth. While I had no part in that plot, it was almost immediately after his death that they approached me for their share. At the time, I had no other plans and was considered one of them. It only seemed appropriate that I pay my dues for all they had given me. They helped me disappear soon afterward and found me employment over the years in a variety of places. I have no doubts that one day you will find traces of my previous life in many levels of society and dozens of countries."

"Previous life?" Holmes queried, cocking an eyebrow mockingly.

William's frown was pretty enough that Holmes already had an inkling of some of the places he could begin looking into those previous activities. Obviously he had trained himself strictly over the years to make every facial expression and gesture a pleasure to view by many a woman. Many a widower in high society across Europe had been too embarrassed over the years to admit to a pretty-faced fop having robbed them for considerable sums. Likely, the story behind his activities would be no different.

"Mr. Holmes, I admit I am not entirely ashamed of the life I led. As I said, it was my way out, and it suited both myself and my employers well. I did not come to London seeking a new start, or to give up my professional interests, or even out of some hope of finding someone who could change me."

The cold, hard green eyes that locked onto Holmes' gray ones froze him for a moment. Holmes had no doubts as to the intent behind those eyes, though he had never seen it before in the eyes of his friend. _Here_ was the distinction between father and son.

"I came to find the man who had abandoned myself and my mother to that monster, Alan Docherty."

Seeing that Holmes understood what lay behind those words, William nodded as if satisfied. Relaxing again, he resumed his tale.

"I was approached almost immediately. They are aware of my every movement, it would seem. They did not know at the time who it was I was seeking or why. When they caught me following both you and Dr. Watson, they began to question me. As I had seen no reason to withhold that information, I told them what they wanted to hear."

The frown in his features was tinged with obvious shame this time. Holmes filed this away for later.

"I did not know him, then. I had yet to approach him. Though I knew of you and your career, Mr. Holmes. I watched for some weeks, and became intrigued."

"When did you approach him?" Holmes finally asked.

"I didn't, at first. At least...not directly," William struggled, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I could not reconcile my idea of him with what I saw. He...was kind to those people. He treated everyone with respect. He seemed a good man. It did not seem...right...for me to interfere, or confront him with those...accusations. I began to think I was mistaken, that it was another Dr. Watson for which I should be looking."

Holmes could not help the smile that graced his features fleetingly. Many people had underestimated the man he called friend, himself included. "Something must have changed your mind, for you _did_ confront him at some point."

William took a deep breath, not wanting to meet those hard steel gray eyes that bored into him. "My organization had decided it was time to use the situation to their advantage."

If he thought Holmes' eye were hard before, he could not imagine the icy threat that lay behind them now. "What did you do?"

"They only wanted information, at first. They wanted me to present myself to him as his son, which was entirely true. They just wanted me to report on his activities and see what information I could gain on your movements through him."

William's voice took on a pleading quality that reminded Holmes how very young this man was, despite all his experiences. "It seemed harmless enough! It kept them from more direct involvement in my affairs and...and I didn't want him...I didn't want my father to know about what I'd been doing these last few years."

William heaved himself off the settee and began pacing the room. "I did what they asked. It was not as if he gave me much information, anyway. He spent more time asking me about my own life and giving me the details of his own. He never discussed your cases, beyond what he had already published. And he would not tell me anything of what you had been working on recently. There was little enough to report."

"You told him to keep your presence a secret."

William's face colored prettily for a moment. "Yes. My organization told me to keep it so. They did not want you aware of what they were planning. They knew the minute you learned of me, you would begin asking questions."

Holmes nodded confirmation to the unspoken question.

The sudden burst of energy seemed to evaporate as William sank back down on the settee. He hung his head in dejection. "He was so happy. He wanted to tell you. He wanted you to meet me. He was already making plans. He..."

"What happened next?" Holmes asked coldly.

"They were not satisfied. They wanted more information. They considered having me present myself to you. But then something changed. They grew impatient. They said they needed something more drastic. They needed a way to distract you, and I would only draw attention, instead. They came up with other plans. When I made it clear I wanted no part, they told me what they would do to me."

"So you did your part to save your own skin." It was not a question, and the steely coldness behind that statement left no question in William's mind what Holmes would do to him had he the chance.

"No."

Holmes raised a disbelieving eyebrow at the man, but waited for further explanation before commenting what ran through his mind.

"I may be a lot of things, Mr. Holmes. But I am no murderer. They knew that, but what they had not planned on was me actively protecting my father. They found a tool they could use against me at last. Still, I would have no part in their plans so long as it involved him directly.

"I should have known," William went on with no small amount of bitterness. "I should have seen what they would do next."

"What did you do?" The ice in Holmes' voice could have frosted the windows.

"I told him the truth."

William seemed to be hunched in on himself as if waiting for a blow from Holmes that never fell. His obvious shame seemed very real and sincere. Holmes had to keep in mind what this young man had done to his friend as he continued to wait patiently.

"I told him everything that night, Mr. Holmes. What I had done, who I worked for...everything. I told him, so he would know why I had to leave. I knew as long as I stayed, he would be in danger," he said, almost pleadingly.

"But he wouldn't let me..."

William seemed on the verge of frustrated tears as he again launched himself from the settee to pace the room. Holmes kept his face an impassive mask as he waited for more.

"He said you could protect me. He said you could use what I know to stop them, to bring them to justice. He did not want me involved, but he knew there was no way to prevent it. He...dear God, I never imagined this to be so difficult!"

William scrubbed his face as if to scrub away the shame and guilt he felt. Finally he turned an almost challenging glare on Holmes. "He said he forgave me."

"No doubt he did," Holmes flashed the young man a brief smile in remembrance of his own guilt and shame and how easily his friend had forgiven him.

For a moment William seemed to search Holmes' face as if trying to determine for himself any falsehood. Apparently he found none, as he turned back to his pacing.

"As I said, he refused to let me go. He didn't want to lose me again. He had some ideas. He told me where to hide, specifically among the Irregulars you employ. It seemed a good enough plan, at the time. And he said he would make arrangements for you to meet with me, as he still could not tell you for himself. He was going to come straight back here when we parted ways. I knew something was wrong, so I turned to follow him.

"I saw the attack, but there was nothing I could do. They had made it very clear by then that any interference on my part would give them cause to kill him. I waited, and then I brought him back here."

William shuddered, but took himself in hand quickly. He gathered his thoughts and shook off the memories that troubled him with admirable swiftness in Holmes' mind.

"I didn't know what they were planning! They assured me he would suffer no permanent damage, but I knew I couldn't just leave him there. It was a risk, as they might see it as betrayal on my part. But I was willing to risk it to bring him back here safely."

"And then you disappeared."

"Yes. I didn't exactly follow his instructions. I had a place stocked with food and such items I would need to survive. But I was cut off. I didn't know about the murder or...I didn't know! I swear it, Mr. Holmes! I didn't know! I would have been there!"

Holmes frowned darkly. He believed the boy. Much as he would have preferred he didn't, he did. "Calm yourself, William. Please, sit. Continue."

William perched himself on the edge of the settee. "I found out four days ago. I knew I could not be seen around the city, or they would find me and ensure I regretted my disloyalty," the acid in his voice surprised even Holmes. "As I said, I came in through the window. I've been avoiding Mrs. Hudson and the maid very carefully hiding either in your bedroom or my father's."

When the boy's cheeks again colored, Holmes suspected what he had spent his time doing. The breach of privacy was not entirely unexpected, but it did not sit well with Holmes. Putting that aside for later, he prompted the boy to continue.

"I was in Edinburgh."

William nodded. "I know. But I didn't dare leave, for fear of discovery. If I had gone to Scotland Yard alone, they would have made me disappear before I could do anything. I don't know who I can trust there. Father told me Inspector Lestrade is a good man, but he would rather it be you to help me, as you have connections just as high as my organization."

Holmes scowled darkly at the thinly veiled question in William's statement. It was not the boy's doubt that bothered him so much, as the sudden suspicion he was fishing for information. While he did not doubt William's sincere desire to get Watson out of their current situation, he wondered how far the boy would go to save his father. Would he be willing to trade the information Holmes could inadvertently provide through protecting him to save his father? The endangering of his own contacts, most namely his own brother, Mycroft Holmes, was not an option. He could not shake the suspicion that the boy had been allowed to come forward now only so he could be used to gain access to those connections.

He wondered if William was aware of this fact.

"So what is it you intend to do now?"

"I don't know. I came to you, as my father wished. I had hoped you would know what to do next."

Holmes considered this for a few moments, letting his own dark thoughts on the matter go where they willed. His instinct had rarely failed him in the past. He did not see how this would be any different. He knew what he wanted to do, but that course of action provided too many risks for his friend. He would honor Watson's desire not to put the boy at further risk by taking him down to the Yard, either. With so little time left, Holmes knew he had to come up with some plan. He now had the key to clear Watson of the murder, but _how_ to go about accomplishing this was another matter entirely.

Rising from his chair, Holmes set aside his pipe. "For now, you will remain here. Tomorrow we will see what needs doing. You will sleep on the settee," Holmes instructed, his tone ensuring there was no room for argument. "I will inform Mrs. Hudson of your presence. There will be no further forays into your father's room."

William's face colored again slightly at this, but he quickly nodded his agreement. Holmes retrieved blankets and watched the young man settle on the settee as if preparing to sleep. Accustomed to having another presence in the room while he sorted out his thoughts, he left some part of his mind aware of the movements in the room while he settled into his own fireside chair.

It was going to be a long night.


	11. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

_Five days. _

_ Time has little meaning in this place. I can remember times when five days was an eternity; or passed so swiftly I didn't notice the coming and going of days. I cannot determine which really applies in this situation. I have felt both these last few weeks. _

_ I have five days left to live. _

_ Only five more days and my part in this affair is, at last, over. I can rest easy had I not the knowledge of what I leave behind. I still worry for Holmes. I hope he will not be alone. But as I have seen these last fourteen years, he is not given to forming bonds casually or quickly. I have been honored to be one of those few he considers worthy of his friendship. _

_ There has been no word of Holmes. I can only assume he did as I requested. If he found the information left in my will and deduced its source, then he has likely gone to Edinburgh. Mrs. Hudson will not tell me anything beyond assurances that Holmes is working on something. _

_ There has been no mention of my son. I have not been contacted since the note that was slipped under the door that first night. They must still have him. I had held some hope that Holmes would be able to put the pieces together and find him. Having him read the will was the only way I could think to draw his attention to the details of the situation. I pray I am not wrong._

_ While I am not afraid of what awaits me, I would like to at least know my son is free of those villans before I go. I do not know how Holmes will take to the lad, knowing the truth of the situation. I can but hope that he will forgive him, as I have done. _

_ I..._

_~o~o~o~_

Watson was forced to set aside his journal as the sound of approaching footsteps signalled the arrival of the man that had been on his mind that very moment. With some trepidation, he waited for the constable to unlock the door before Holmes flew in swiftly. For a moment the two eyed each other closely. Many things passed between them in the few seconds it took the constable to close the door, leaving them in silence.

"I have him."

These three simple words had the effect of leaving Watson weak-kneed with relief. The lack of sleep and nutrition combined with his relief had him resuming his seat rather unceremoniously on the bench. He held up a hand to stop Holmes next words as he forced back the gray fog that edged around his vision. Holmes materialized next to him on the bench, placing a supporting hand on his arm.

"Is he well?" Watson finally managed to ask in a voice thick with concern.

Holmes frowned for a moment in confusion. "He came to me."

Watson looked up sharply. In an instant, Holmes understood. "You thought—"

Watson but a finger to his lips as he eyed the door. Quickly he whispered so low only Holmes more sensitive ears would catch it. "They said they had him. I was to follow through the trial and execution before they would release him."

"You know he's one of them," Holmes whispered back, placing his lips close to Watson's ear.

Anyone watching the two would be left in frustration, only able to guess what passed between the two friends. The looks they shared spoke so many things words could not. The relief was still present, as Watson scowled and shook his head. Holmes leaned to whisper again, but Watson cut him off.

"I'm begging you as a friend, keep him out of this. You _can _help him."

"Watson, I cannot let this happen!" Holmes hissed.

"You _can,_ and you will."

"If he testifies even just what he knows—"

"No."

"He can—"

"No."

"Listen to me! He can stop this. He is the _only one_ that can. If he comes forward now, I can use what he knows to at least throw doubt on your trial. You and I both know there is so much more, and I need his cooperation. What incentive does he have should you be executed?"

Watson's gaze was fixed firmly on the floor. But his shoulders had slumped. Holmes could see the weariness in every line of the man's form. He was exhausted with worry. He had relieved that worry, but now...

"Holmes," Watson finally began slowly, as if putting his own thoughts into some semblance of order. "I have asked little of you, in all the years of our partnership. I know what I ask is not easy for you to bear. But I want you to consider this: Should he come forward now, he will be a target. And, as it will be necessary for him to make more public appearances to clear my name, he will be a very _visible_ target. You and I both know the dangers, as does William. He knows to some small extent how high their influence ranges in the government. I doubt even your brother is safe, at this point in time.

"I have no doubts he would do as you ask, despite my instructions to him on the matter. Quite possibly, he would make arrangements for the information in regards to your contacts within the government to be sold in exchange for my life. I will not allow him to go back, not even to save me. Nor will I allow them the opportunity to kill him to keep him quiet. If you wait until after the execution and then enact your plans to use his information quietly, there is less risk of either."

Holmes listened quietly, not liking any of it. But he could not deny the logic in his friend's reasoning. He could clearly see the mistrust in his friend's eyes, knowing what it cost the man who obviously loved his son. William would betray them, if it meant saving Watson.

"Please, dear friend. Try to—"

Holmes cut him off with an upraised hand as he stood. He took a few steps away. His mind raced for an alternative. There was so little time. But a great mind like his _had_ to be able to come up with something. Sighing heavily in defeat, he finally turned to meet Watson's pleading gaze.

"I _do_ understand, dear chap," Holmes assured. "And I don't like it."

"Thank you," Watson said with heartfelt sincerity.

His mind still racing, Holmes forced his gaze to remain steady. "I will do all I can for him. But I cannot promise it will be without some...consequences."

"I know," Watson smiled briefly, to let his friend know he'd already considered that.

Knowing there was little more to say, Watson rose to stand before Holmes. "The other documents you found in my drawer I leave to you to distribute. All else should be outlined in the will, as you've seen. I still insist that you do not attend, and request you keep William away as well."

Holmes nodded sadly in defeat. Watson placed a hand comfortingly on his shoulder. "It will be alright, Holmes. This is for the best. And there is no one else I would trust with protecting him. I need you to do this for me, and for him."

Holmes could not deny the sting of frustrated tears as he closed his eyes as if to deny these words. A life without Watson was more than he thought he could bear. How unfair it was that Watson would die a criminal seemed only worse. His mind screamed for a release, for something to numb this fear and anger he felt. He—

The arm that embraced him was steady and strong, as if to offer him strength. This, from a man who likely needed all he had to face what was coming. Holmes' heart stuttered in shame. What right did he have to indulge in such weakness when his Watson needed him now? Finally pulling himself together, Holmes turned to face his friend's concerned eyes. He did not need that concern now. Holmes would prove to him that his faith would not be misplaced.

"I will. I promise you, Watson. I_ will_ be alright."

The serenity Holmes had seen previously despite all this turmoil returned to his friend's green eyes. The warmth and gratitude in that gaze solidified his resolution to see this through, for his friend, his Watson.

Watson himself had no need to answer to what he had already known. He had just needed Holmes to see it and acknowledge his own strength for himself. He smiled gratefully as he nodded. Turning away, he resumed his seat on the bench as Holmes knocked on the door. Something dawned on Holmes as the constable on the other side noisily unlocked the door.

"Are there any messages for Lestrade an company?"

The wolfish grin that crossed Watson's face was not one he had expected. There was something almost predatory in those eyes that startled him.

"I'm sure you'll see to that later."

Holmes' eyebrows nearly shot into his hairline at this unexpectedly enigmatic statement. Nodding to let his friend know he understood there to be more to this statement, Holmes allowed the constable to escort him back out of the gaols. Frowning darkly to himself, Holmes turned these thoughts over in his mind as he made his way back to Baker Street. Had these disturbing suspicions not troubled him so deeply, he would have been thankful for the distraction from other more painful thoughts.


	12. Epilogue

_**A/N: **Oh blast it! I did _not_ want to write this. Yeah, even my eyes were blurring for this. I hope I don't disappoint, cause I'm _not_ going through this again!_

* * *

**Epilogue**

The last notes of Holmes' violin trailed off mournfully into the silence of that cold cemetery.

Again his eyes fell upon the marble headstone gracing the freshly turned earth before him.

Even his violin could not accurately give an account of the heartbreak and grief of that last day. His failure would haunt him all his remaining days in this life. No less determined, he raised the bow to his violin one more time.

~o~o~o~

_ Holmes had returned to find the sitting room empty. Mrs. Hudson was nowhere to be found. It took his swift mind only moments to form a theory. Forgetting his coat and other accessories completely, he fled his rooms. Not even waiting for a cab, he raced down the icy streets. _

_ In record time Holmes had returned. Spying Lestrade, he gripped the man by the arm. Breathless with exertion, he forced the words out anyway. "Watson...visitor?"_

_ Confused and concerned, the inspector furrowed his brow. "Yes, I had thought it was one of your Irregulars come to say goodbye. I didn't think it very appropriate, but..."_

_ "Take me...now," Holmes said, practically pushing the man down the corridors. _

_ "Mr. Holmes, what the devil—"_

_ "No time," Holmes said. _

_ Minutes later, Holmes motioned for silence as the sound of raised voices came from the tiny barred window near the top of the door. _

_ "I'm sorry," William sobbed, obviously in tears. "Please, don't do this. Let me—"_

_ "No, William. You will obey me in this," Watson stated sternly. "You will return to Mr. Holmes. Do as he says and all will be well."_

_ "Please..."_

_Having heard enough, Holmes motioned for Lestrade to unlock the door. Watson had taken a defensive stance between himself and the person entering the cell. He nearly went limp with relief at the sight of the inspector and his friend. Partially turning, he gripped William by the shoulder. He threw Holmes a look before he began to speak. _

_ "You tell the other Irregulars that there will be no more visits, young man. You don't belong here," he spoke sternly. "Mr. Holmes will take you back to your parents."_

_ Holmes nodded in understanding. "Come along, Master Alexander. We will speak more of this later."_

_ "Holmes, a moment of your time, please?" the request was made in a carefully neutral voice, but the panic was clear behind those eyes. _

_ Holmes took William by the arm in a painfully tight grip. The gray eyes bore into the tear-filled green ones. "You will wait with Inspector Lestrade."_

_ Lestrade, seeming to have comprehended at least to some extent what was going on here, quickly took William's other arm and guided him through the door. "We'll be in the corridor," he said. _

_ As expected, Lestrade did not waste the time re-locking the door. _

_ "Watson—"_

_ "I know, Holmes. But now you have to get him out of here. Get him to a safe place. You can't hide him at Baker Street anymore, not now."_

_ Holmes nodded his agreement. Before he could voice a suggestion there was a commotion in the corridor. Lestrade's shout was cut off with a strangled cry as the sounds moved down the corridor. Holmes and Watson dashed out of the cell before either had time to do more than react. The sight they found made Holmes' blood run cold. _

_ William had one arm around Lestrade's neck while the other held a gun to the inspector's head. _

_ Holmes bit back a curse as his friend's face lost all color. This could not be happening. Before they had time to entirely absorb the scene, William had managed to drag the smaller man all the way back into the offices. There, he put his back to the wall and ducked somewhat behind the inspector to make himself less of a target. Holmes and Watson approached slowly, hoping not to startle the desperate young man. _

_ Even as Gregson steps forward, Watson reached out. "Give me the gun."_

_ This stern command was met with a gentle, sad smile so reminiscent of his father's that it twisted Holmes' heart painfully. Those familiar green eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry."_

_ Watson's already pale face takes on a deathly pallor. "Please, don't do this."_

_ "Listen to me!" William shouts, as the combined group of law enforcement officials settled into a something of a wary order, clubs and other weapons ready. _

_ "I framed Dr. Watson for murder! I was paid to leave the evidence at the crime scene after I murdered—"_

_ "No!" Watson tried to stop him. "He's lying!"_

_ "I paid witnesses to tell you that it was Dr. Watson—"_

_ "Don't _do _this. _Please!"_ Watson begged. _

_ "He is innocent!"_

_ The silence that descended roared in their ears. Seeing that everyone had heard his confession, William ignored the tears that fell as he turned to his father one last time. _

_ "Forgive me."_

_ "No!"_

_ Watson dove forward even as Lestrade was pushed into his path. He threw the off-balance inspector to the side, but it was already too late. Holmes closed his eyes against what he knew would come next. The darkness behind his eyelids did nothing to ease the pain that seared his soul as that gunshot rang through the almost silent building. _

_ When he at last opened his eyes, he saw what he had hoped never to see. His Watson trembling from head to feet on his knees cradling the body of his son in his arms. Though tears stung his eyes, he refused to give them release. Carefully he approached and lay a hand on his friend's shoulder to return to him some of the strength he had given over so many years of friendship. _

_ "Please, I just...I need to be alone now," Watson whispered to his friend, never raising his head from where it was bowed over that of his son's mutilated one. _

_ Self-recriminations screamed their way through Holmes' mind as he recognized the guilt rising in his heart. He knew he had failed. He could not at the moment think of how he could have done any different, but he knew this whole mess was his fault. Nonetheless, he stayed. He backed into a darkened corner as he watched Lestrade and the others disperse the crowd. Confusion and relief seemed to surge through all present, but Holmes knew better. At least one of those people present knew the truth of what they were seeing. Holmes eyed each and every face in the hope of identifying someone—anyone—on which he could lay suspicion. _

_ Lestrade waited for several minutes, also helping to turn away onlookers. He could not begin to comprehend this reaction from Dr. Watson. The boy confessed to murder and framing him for murder. However, Lestrade recognized that agonized grief on the doctor's face. He had seen enough of it these last four years to know. Whatever else that boy was, he was something special to Dr. Watson. And as for Holmes... Lestrade checked a sigh. He knew the man was human. Though he had already turned his mind to something else as he was in a nearby corner watching everyone present. He was a silent guard to his friend's grief, now. But he had seen the expression of acute suffering the man had worn only seconds before the boy had turned the gun on himself. _

_ Finally he could let the situation go on no longer. Despite how he wished he didn't have to do so, he knew he would have to address the doctor. He had seen how the doctor had rebuffed Holmes. He did not want to think how unwelcome his presence would be as a professional in this situation. He took one glance at the man cradling that body in his arms, still bowed with the fresh grief and tossed his professionalism out the window. Kneeling beside Watson, he gently placed a hand on the shaking shoulder. _

_ "You don't have to say anything, John," Lestrade started, ignoring Holmes distant scrutiny. "But we _do_ need to clear the area."_

_ "Thank you, Giles. And...I'm sorry."_

_ "Don't be." _

_ Watson nodded, carefully trying to calm himself and the raging emotions he so desperately wished to give voice. He wanted to scream. He wanted to weep. He wanted to shake some sense into that damn boy. He wanted to share his life and teach him what it meant to be his son. He wanted to—_

_ Carefully he closed his son's green eyes for the last time. Silently, he said good-bye to his son as he arranged the corpse for removal. _

_ "I have to return you to your cell for the time being...Holmes is still here. I can..."_

_ The man in question stepped forward making no more noise than a cat, but Watson sensed it anyway. He turned to face his friend. _

_ "Go home," he said gently._

_ "Watson—"_

_ He shook his head sadly. "There's nothing you can do here now."_

_ Again feeling rejected, Holmes nodded sadly. He found he could not meet his friend's gaze as Lestrade took Watson by the arm to lead him back to his cell. His shoulders slumping, Holmes hardly noticed the freezing rain as he walked coatless back toward Baker Street. _

~o~o~o~

As Holmes lowered his bow once more, he closed his eyes against the tears that stung unbidden.

"Thank you, Holmes."

Watson's quietly spoken words touched him. Setting his violin aside in its new case, Holmes rested an arm across Watson's bowed shoulders as if to ward off some of the grief. He had not heard his friend return, but he was glad he did not have to do so alone. Together they stared at the headstone, wrapped in their thoughts and memories.

_William John Docherty-Watson_

_ beloved son of John Watson_

_ Born: April 20, 1875_

_ Died: February 27, 1895_


End file.
